Cold
by The Magic Pocket Turtle
Summary: Dr. Horrible attends Penny's funeral. One-Shot.


**Author's Note:** Dear Lord, I'm back. Yeah, yeah, I'm working on other, much longer things that I should really be focusing on, and quite frankly, I should be doing my homework right about now, but this story came to mind and I haven't written anything for the fun of it in _so long_... And, since I have been recently introduced to the wonderful world of Dr. Horrible, I felt I had to pay the man some respect. It's short, shorter than most of my one-shots, shorter than most one-shots I read, but I think it's decent. I just wish my prime writing hours weren't after 11 at night...

* * *

"What is _he _doing here?"

"No right-"

"-The monster."

If he heard them at all, he didn't show it. Dr. Horrible didn't show much of anything anymore. He was as cold and rigid as the victims of his freeze ray. Because of this, the entire city found itself in terror of this thin, quiet _unpredictable _Super Villain. Other Super Villains at least showed something- Even Bad Horse was known to let his demonic whinny echo down the streets after a successful crime. But Dr. Horrible gave nothing- no remorse, no joy, no anger. He had seemed bored, early on in his career, perhaps dazed- but even this base form of emotion was replaced by the cold, automaton motions as he stole from and experimented upon the city. Even when one brave, brave copper managed to spray him with mace, or if some vigilante managed to work up the guts to shoot him, hit him, try anything that would garner at least a half-whispered curse from any other being, they received nothing but that cold, empty, almost unfocused stare, and a swift, terrifying shot from his never far-from-hand Freeze Ray.

And this cold, mechanical villain was here. The brazen bastard. Still, no emotion. Why had he come? To mock? To gloat? What reason did he _have _to come, when even her boyfriend couldn't miss his therapy to mourn her passing?

Of course, no one was going to tell him to leave. No one had the spine.

The church had been filled with the hushed and not-so-hushed sobs of the family, friends, and homeless that had known Penny. As the Reverend delivered the eulogy, various others filtered into the pews without much acknowledgement. But when Reverend Dawson's voice hitched in his throat and his eyes grew wide, the entire wake turned to see who had earned such a response.

And there he was- in his red lab coat- he had only recently changed his wardrobe, but there wasn't anyone who didn't know him by face. He pulled his strange, mechanical glasses up from his eyes and stared coldly across the congregation, who quivered back at him. They shrank back as he walked down the aisle and seated himself in the first pew- the one reserved for the closest relatives of Penny.

All members of her wake immediately evacuated to the other side of the church.

Dr. Horrible said nothing. After seating himself, he did not move. He sat stiff and still, calmly, quietly, as though he belonged. As though he had every right to be there.

After a few moments, the Reverend cleared his throat and shakily finished his now considerably shortened eulogy. When the crowd rose and the pallbearers came forward, Dr. Horrible rose and followed them.

It might have been the nervousness or the slick ground of just after rain, but one of the pallbearers slipped, or tripped, and went down. Penny didn't. Swifter than expected from someone generally so still, Dr. Horrible had grabbed the pole the fallen pallbearer had lost, and the five of them froze. From the slick, muddy ground the pallbearer looked up in terror at the face of the most hated villain on the news. The villain only looked down his nose at the young man, who scrambled to his feet and bolted.

Thus, Penny's murderer carried her to her grave. He buckled a few times- strength was not something he was renowned for, and the rigid march of the three other pallbearers combined with the slippery ground made it difficult for him to keep pace.

Few people stayed to watch the once-woman be lowered into the ground. Those that did hovered nervously about to see what Dr. Horrible would do, hoping desperately that he would leave, just leave them in peace to mourn. But he stood there, cold, staring, as they threw the soggy dirt in over her. Not once had he shown emotion. Not a frown, not a smirk. Nothing. He made a small movement with his hand, toward his pocket.

The last of the mourners scattered- the grave diggers followed with them- there would be time to bury and mourn the dead when _he _had finally left.

Dr. Horrible watched them flee with his robot gaze.

They hadn't managed to bury her very deeply. He considered jumping down there- opening her coffin for one last glimpse of her face. He decided against it- he'd never be able to climb back out. Instead, he reached back to his pocket and withdrew a slightly crumpled, wilted flower- a chrysanthemum. She said she liked them best of all. He tossed it lightly into the grave- a pathetic, sad offering to the dead.

He picked up one of the discarded shovels and began to pour the earth back in over her. He had to stop several times. It was tiring work, in so many ways, but it was done. It had to be done. No one else was there to do it.

And no one else was there to hear the tiny, pitiful sighs and sniffs of the great and terrible Dr. Horrible.


End file.
